


A Tribute to the King

by Sauronix



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Forehead Kisses, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Pining, Some Fluff, Some Humor, This Fic Will Give You Whiplash, remembering a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 21:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12920481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauronix/pseuds/Sauronix
Summary: “Remember that time Noct got slapped in the face by a fish?” Prompto asks.Gladio smirks. He does remember that. They were fishing at Galdin Quay the day before Insomnia fell. Noct tugged a little too hard on his line, and the tiniest Duscaean dace Gladio ever saw came sailing out of the water, wriggling on the hook, to smack their prince right in the nose. He and Prompto just about died of laughter, the two of them rolling around on the dock and clutching their aching bellies, but Noct moped for a solid two hours.“To be fair, the scales did cut his chin,” Iggy says. “I don’t blame him for sulking.”In the aftermath of Noct's death, his friends raise a toast in his memory. Originally written for the Day Two Gladnis Week prompt "SO DRUNK."





	A Tribute to the King

It’s been five days since the dawn returned.  
  
Five days since Noct died.  
  
Gladio sits in the cramped kitchenette of the caravan he’s renting with Iggy, a bottle of cheap beer in his hand, and stares at nothing with puffy eyes. He left sobriety behind three and a half days ago. The booze numbs the pain, the guilt that cuts like a sharpened blade, though he hasn’t been blackout _drunk_. He’s kept himself just buzzed enough to forget, if only for a little while, that he’s a massive fucking failure.  
  
Because Noct’s gone.  
  
Noct’s _dead_.  
  
Noct’s rotting in some shallow grave they dug for him.  
  
And Gladio’s still here.  
  
What the hell good is an Amicitia without a king to protect?  
  
Worse, Noct ain’t the only one he let down. Listening to Iggy’s muffled keening behind the folding vinyl door that separates the bedroom from the rest of the caravan has been driving that knife deeper. Iggy’s tried to be strong. He knows that. They’ve all tried to be strong. They’ve all done their share of crying—privately, the way his dad always said men should—but it’s been hardest for Iggy. Among all of them, he loved Noct the most.  
  
Gladio’s tried to comfort him. He’s stood outside that vinyl door he doesn’t know how many times, listening to Iggy choke on his sobs, his hand raised but hesitating. Maybe Iggy won’t want his comfort. Maybe Iggy would turn him away. The last thing he wants to hear is Iggy telling him to get lost—and maybe that’s selfish, but he ain’t made of stone. His heart’s hurting, but it ain’t broken yet. Only Iggy has the power to do that.  
  
So he never knocks. He goes back to his seat in the kitchenette and cracks open another beer, wishing he could have done something to stop all of this.  
  
As with most things, it’s Prompto who snaps them out of their funk. He comes by the caravan on the fifth night with an unlabelled green bottle and three shot glasses in his hands.  
  
“Hey, big guy,” he says when Gladio answers the door. “Figured we could all use a drink.”  
  
“Yeah,” Gladio says. He’s already had enough drinks, but he doesn’t have the heart to turn Prompto away. “Maybe.”  
  
Prompto sets the bottle and glasses down on the counter. “Where’s Ignis?”  
  
Wordlessly, Gladio jerks a thumb at the closed door. Prompto sighs, and then he goes to push it open, disappearing into the darkness beyond. There’s a murmur of voices, though Gladio can’t make out a word they’re saying, before Prompto finally returns with Ignis in tow. The sight of his disheveled hair, and his drawn, pale face, and the half-dried tear track on his right cheek makes Gladio’s heart clench. Shiva’s tits, all he wants to do is pull Iggy into his arms and hold him until it doesn’t hurt anymore.  
  
“You okay, Iggy?” Gladio asks.  
  
Iggy lets Prompto help him into one of the benches in the dining nook. “Yes. Thank you.”  
  
Gladio nods, sliding onto the bench across from Iggy, while Prompto takes the seat next to their blind friend. Without fanfare, Prompto uncorks the bottle pours out three shots of some clear liquid. When Gladio raises his glass to take a sniff, it assaults his nostrils with the overpowering stink of what has to be acetone. It smells just like the stuff Iris used to take off her nail polish when she was a teenager.  
  
Across from him, Ignis feels along the table for his glass. Wordlessly, Gladio nudges it into his hand.  
  
“Let’s raise a toast,” Prompto says. “To Noct.”  
  
“Yes. To Noct,” Ignis murmurs.  
  
“Wherever you are, buddy, we miss ya,” Gladio says. They clink their glasses together, and then Gladio tosses back his shot. He grimaces as the alcohol scalds his esophagus, slamming his glass down on the tabletop. “Six, Prompto, what the hell is this swill?”  
  
“Moonshine,” Prompto says. He pours them all another round. “We made it with potatoes.”  
  
Ignis wrinkles his nose. “It’s dreadful.”  
  
Doesn’t matter that it’s disgusting, though. They knock those shots back, too, and Prompto pours a third round without asking if they want another. It kind of goes without saying. They all need something to take the edge off five days of grieving—some more than others. Gladio sips at his drink, but Iggy swallows his in one, holding his glass out again for Prompto to fill it.  
  
“Remember that time Noct got slapped in the face by a fish?” Prompto asks.  
  
Gladio smirks. He does remember that. They were fishing at Galdin Quay the day before Insomnia fell. Noct tugged a little too hard on his line, and the tiniest Duscaean dace Gladio ever saw came sailing out of the water, wriggling on the hook, to smack their prince right in the nose. He and Prompto just about died of laughter, the two of them rolling around on the dock and clutching their aching bellies, but Noct moped for a solid two hours.  
  
“To be fair, the scales did cut his chin,” Iggy says. “I don’t blame him for sulking.”  
  
“Whatever, Iggy, you would’ve let him get away with murder,” Gladio says.  
  
Iggy shrugs and downs another shot. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”  
  
They drink for another forty-five minutes, sharing memories and some much-needed laughter. Even Iggy cracks a hint of a smile as Gladio tells the story about the time Noct farted when he tried his first-ever weighted squat, and laughed so hard he had to bail, sprawling on the floor and gasping for air as the barbell clattered onto the safety rails.  
  
“It was like a bassoon,” Gladio says, wiping tears from his eyes as he chuckles. “I don’t know how the hell you didn’t hear it up in your office, Iggy.”  
  
Iggy shakes his head, sluggish now, leaning heavily on Prompto’s shoulder. “To be honest…this is the first…I’ve caught wind of it.”  
  
They howl with mirth again. Gladio pounds the table with his fist—not just because he’s chuckling, but because he’s trying to stop something inside himself from breaking. If he’d done his damn job, maybe Noct would be here laughing with Prompto and Iggy instead. Noct would be here, and Gladio would be dead in his place, where a Shield belongs. Just like his dad, and his grandfather before him.  
  
Guilt churns in his gut again.  
  
“I think that’s the last of it,” Prompto says as he pours what’s left into Iggy’s glass. “It’s all yours, Igster.”  
  
Iggy pushes the glass away. “Not feeling well,” he says thickly.  
  
“Aw, crap,” Prompto says. “Can I get you water or something?”  
  
It ain’t surprising the alcohol isn’t sitting well in Iggy’s stomach. Gladio can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Iggy drink, and even then, it was always a glass of wine at a social function or a bottle of beer at Noct’s apartment. He’s never actually been drunk in Gladio’s presence. Gladio’s not sure he’s ever made it past a light buzz.  
  
“Water,” Iggy says, nodding.  
  
Prompto jumps out of his seat and opens all the cupboards until he finds a grubby-lookin’ mug. He gives it a quick rinse under the tap before filling it and passing it to Iggy. Hand shaking, Iggy takes it and starts to drink.  
  
“Guess maybe you should go,” Gladio says.  
  
Prompto frowns. “You sure?”  
  
“Yeah.” Gladio runs a hand through his hair, sighing. Six, he’s tired. “I’ll get him to bed. Thanks for the drinks. See you tomorrow?”  
  
Prompto glances at Iggy again, looking unsure, but when he meets Gladio’s eyes he nods. “Sure. Tomorrow. You know where I am if you need me.”  
  
“Apartment over the garage. I know.”  
  
Prompto goes on his way, and Gladio turns his attention to the man sitting across from him in their cramped kichenette. Iggy’s still sipping at his water, but it’s like he’s forcing it down, each gulp an effort. He’d probably be better off with toast or bacon, but they don’t have any food here. They’ve been subsisting off take-out from Takka’s diner.  
  
“All right, Iggy,” Gladio says, heaving himself to his feet, “let’s get you to bed.”  
  
Iggy moans, lurching forward, a hand on his belly. Gladio knows that look. It’s the look of someone who’s about to barf.  
  
Hastily, he slides out of his bench and grabs Iggy around the waist, hauling him to his feet. Somehow, they make it to the bathroom just in time. Guided by Gladio, Iggy drops to his knees and vomits into the toilet, his body racked with tremors. He hasn’t eaten much, so all he brings up is acid and undigested booze, over and over, until he’s just dry heaving. Gladio rubs his back in soothing circles as it subsides, as Iggy goes limp, shaking and clutching the bowl with white-knuckled hands.  
  
“You okay?” Gladio murmurs.  
  
Iggy coughs, spitting a gob of acidy phlegm into the toilet. “I think so.”  
  
“Good enough to stand?”  
  
Iggy nods and puts out his arm so Gladio can take it. Once Gladio gets him upright, Iggy’s head lolls on his shoulder. Warm breath ghosts over his neck, and Gladio tries not to think about how warm, how pliant, Iggy feels in his arms. The man’s drunk, for crying out loud, and he just barfed up all the contents of his stomach. Now isn’t the time. Shaking his head, Gladio slings an arm around Iggy’s waist, and they stagger the five steps from the bathroom to the bedroom.  
  
Gently, he lays Iggy down on the sagging mattress, propping his head up on the pillow and lifting his feet onto the bed. Besides his boots, which are by the door of the caravan, Iggy’s still fully clothed. Gladio reaches up to pluck the visor from his eyes, folding them and setting them on the nightstand.  
  
He’s about to draw back when Iggy’s hand finds his cheek, and Gladio has to fight not to turn his face into it and kiss his warm, damp palm. Instead, he holds himself totally still as Iggy’s fingers trace the line of his beard, then the curve of his cheek, and the seam of scar tissue splitting the fragile skin under his eye. It’s like Iggy’s marvelling at the textures of flesh and hair that define Gladio’s appearance. Memorizing them.  
  
“Have I ever told you how wonderful you are?” Iggy murmurs, dropping his hand to the mattress. The moonshine lingering on his breath is probably strong enough to knock out a garulessa bull. “I should have said it…long before now…”  
  
“You don’t have to say it, Iggy,” Gladio murmurs, even though he wants Iggy to say it again. He wants that so bad. Reluctantly, he pulls away, sitting on the bed by Iggy’s feet so he can peel off his socks. He tosses them both into the half-open suitcase next to the bed. “You’re drunk, anyway. Don’t know what the hell you’re saying.”  
  
In response, he gets a snore. He glances over and sees Iggy’s head tilted back on the pillow, his eye closed and mouth half-open. Shit. Well, maybe it’s what Iggy needs most right now—the oblivion of slumber, even if it’s only because he’s drunk. Gladio smiles and rises, carefully pulling the duvet over him and tucking it around his prone form.  
  
“Night, Iggy,” he whispers, and he only hesitates for a moment before he leans in and presses a kiss to Iggy’s forehead, sweet and tender.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally started writing this yesterday, and did not edit or beta it. I apologize for the abrupt tonal shifts. And also for the barfing. Thank you nonetheless for reading.
> 
> P.S. I'm now [on Tumblr](https://sauronix.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
